These Myriad Colours That Define Life
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: Little drabbles revolving around life in 221b, Baker Street. Oh yes, domestic in the extreme. Sometimes angsty. Established Johnlock, with mentions of Mystrade. Let the chaos ensue! Now complete.
1. Tea

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing. Never will, either. How sad is that?

**Alternative Title:** How Sherlock Turned Domestic (Slightly).

**Warning:** Slash. That means male/male making out. Sometimes implied sex. Don't like, don't read.

**A/N:** They're really short, and I was half-asleep when these came to me. I wrote the first four at around 1 a.m., all in the space of half an hour. Pretty neat.

**Parameters:** I need to state these.

1) Established relationship.

2) Three years post-Reichenbach.

3) Slight Mystrade. Again, don't like, don't read.

4) May turn OOC at times. And no, I can't help that, unfortunately.

Onwards, then!

x—x

**TEA**

The kettle was boiling. And then, wait for it –

'Agh!'

John bolted upright in bed, head pounding. Something wasn't right – the man usually beside him this early in the morning wasn't there (since they'd started doing… whatever it is that they were doing – each other, he supposed – he'd been very stern about Sherlock's sleeping habits. He'd been dumbfounded when he found Sherlock actually following his advice seriously). Sherlock was up and about, then, doing God-knows-what.

He yawned, stretched a bit like a cat and headed downstairs to the living room, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

He plopped onto his armchair and unfolded the newspaper. It was another five minutes before he realised there was a cup of tea on the centre table in front of him with a note beside it, which said –

_Am in the bathroom. Lestrade texted – triple murder, page seven of the newspaper. Had to get up early – you were asleep, didn't want to wake you. I hope you enjoy the tea before it gets cold. – SH_

Sherlock had made him tea. John smiled fondly and took a sip. It was perfect – just the way he liked it. So that was what had woken him; the sound of the kettle whistling happily!

Just then, the man in question came bustling into the room, pulling his Belstaff coat on hastily. He brightened when he saw the doctor.

'Ah, good, you're awake! I'll see you in the morgue at 10:30, then.' He kissed John affectionately on the cheek and bolted down the stairs two at a time. It wasn't a question. No, Sherlock expected John to be in the morgue at 10:30 and in St. Bart's morgue John would be when the clock struck 10:30.

_Hmm,_ John mused as he sipped his rapidly cooling tea, scanning the details of their latest case given on page seven, _I do hope the case rates above a 6, at least. Otherwise, we'll never hear the end of this._

x—x


	2. Star Wars

**STAR WARS**

He'd known Sherlock would find out eventually. After all, he was the world's only Consulting Detective for a reason. Star Wars was one of the movies Sherlock Holmes actually, _really_ liked. He loved seeing the child-like glee on the younger man's face whenever a Star Wars movie came on the telly. Truth was, John loved them just as much, except he didn't show it.

But why?

Well, some part of him wanted to keep this side of him to remain secret from his lover – keep it mysterious, you see. The other part of him just really wanted to give in, and really liked how Sherlock would enthusiastically suggest a Star Wars movie marathon every other Sunday.

Bored? Watch Star Wars! Not shagging on Friday night? Watch Star Wars! Just finished a particularly tough case and wanting to continue the high? Watch Star Wars!

So when the carefully constructed façade of _I don't know much about Star Wars, would you enlighten me?_ did slip, it was, of course, at the beginning of _The Empire Strikes Back_, when Princess Leia landed on Hoth.

John carelessly remarked about some obscure fact that most ordinary fans would have missed. At which point, Sherlock paused the movie and turned to John incredulously.

'Only true Star Wars buffs would know that, John. Why would you keep this from me?'

And John, of course, had no choice but to tell him.

The next Star Wars night was complete with lightsabers bought on eBay, a cloak around both their shoulders and both of them rattling off the dialogues to _Episode IV: A New Hope_ (Sherlock refused to acknowledge that Episodes I, II and III were part of the series, although, he conceded, 'The Phantom Menace isn't so bad, I suppose. All because of Liam Neeson.') like trained parrots.

x—x

**A/N:** Just for the record, I don't consider Episodes I, II and III part of the series, either. I just… have an aversion to them.


	3. What's Mystrade?

**WHAT'S MYSTRADE?**

'What's Mystrade?' John asked flatly. He'd heard this peculiar combination of Mycroft and Lestrade's names floating around the Yard, but didn't know whom to believe. So he turned to the most trustworthy source he knew: Sherlock Holmes.

'Hmm?' Sherlock gazed intently through his microscope at the lactobacillus from a yoghurt stain on the coat of their latest victim.

'I asked – what's Mystrade, Sherlock? And look at me when you answer,' John repeated, this time a little more forcefully.

'It's a combination of Mycroft and Lestrade's names.' Sherlock glanced up briefly at him before returning to his perusal of the slide.

'Yeah, I figured that out by myself, funnily enough. What I meant was – why?'

'Why what?'

'Why have people combined their names and are talking about them?'

'I do believe that's what ordinary people do when they're bored – they come up with weird names to link two people romantically. We are called Johnlock, I've heard. Or rather, read, we have a very ardent fan following of the two of us, John.'

'So you're saying…'

'So I'm saying that Detective Inspector Lestrade and my brother are now sharing a bed. Do keep up, love, I thought you knew more about these things than I did – oops, careful. Don't choke on your tea that I so painstakingly prepared for you.'

For John had spit out the mouthful of tea that had been about to enter his oesophagus.

'Wh-what?' he sputtered.

'I won't repeat myself.'

'I don't want you to, either. But… you're okay with this?'

'Why wouldn't I be? As long as Mycroft takes care of his own affairs and keeps his abnormally large nose out of mine, I have no reason to complain.'

'Right.'

'Besides, they're right for each other. Mummy certainly seems to think so.'

'Mu – how long has this been going on, exactly? Sharing each other's beds?'

'About six months.'

'And you didn't inform me earlier because?'

'I really didn't see the need.'

John sighed, then chuckled. 'I'll never be able to look at Mycroft the same way again.'

x—x


	4. Hugs

**HUGS**

Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate for the past seven years and lover for the past two, was a hugger.

He didn't hug everyone, nor did he hug a lot, per se: just John, Mrs Hudson, occasionally even Lestrade. Mycroft, obviously, was out of the question. Sherlock just preferred hugging to kissing, even though he did indulge in a lot of the latter with John around all the time.

His hugs usually came in the wake of post-case euphoria, but sometimes, Sherlock would hug John in the flat for absolutely no rhyme or reason. And their receiver was not complaining. Not one bit.

In fact, John _lived_ for Sherlock's hugs. And kisses. And the mind-blowing sex that usually followed. But it all starts with a hug, right?

Most people thought Sherlock was cold, distant, aloof – they thought wrong. Sherlock was a great hugger. John knew it was an aftereffect of the abuse he'd received from his father at a young age and the physical intimacy Mycroft, as the elder brother who was supposed to look after him, had denied him in his childhood. Hence, the need to seek affection.

His hugs were warm and very gentle, not to mention clingy when it came to John. And they felt wonderful. John sometimes felt he could just stay in his lover's arms forever when he was like this.

And the hugs were sometimes fierce, protective, possessive. Near-death experiences in which John's life was at stake always ended with Sherlock pulling through in the nick of time and, once the ordeal was over, wrapping John in his arms like he would never let him go. John often felt Sherlock shaking in situations like these. And John always reassured him by saying that while he was in Sherlock's arms, no harm could come to him.

Why?

Because it was the truth.

x—x


	5. Fan Fiction

**FAN FICTION**

'Sherlock,' John called over his shoulder. 'Come here just a minute.'

Sherlock stomped over, protective glasses snapped on and blowtorch in his gloved hand.

'What is it?' he asked brusquely. 'And make it quick, I don't want the zinc to react; it's crucial to my experiment.'

'Look at this.' John motioned to his laptop in front of him, on which an internet page was open.

Sherlock scanned it quickly. Speed-reading was one of the many enviable qualities he possessed. He appeared unperturbed. 'So?'

'Is that is? Just – 'so'? Do you have _any_ idea how unflattering this… this _fan fiction_ is?'

'Au contraire, my dear Watson, it is flattering in the extreme. The writer seems to have done justice to both of us fairly well, and they certainly got our mannerisms right. I'd say this was very flattering.'

'But… have you _seen_ the _detail_ in the writing? The flat's been described _perfectly_, not to mention it's _extremely_ explicit. This isn't just some random fan, unless – it isn't you, is it?' he asked suddenly.

'What? No!' Sherlock answered. 'No, of course not. What we do in the bedroom is sacred, I wouldn't _dream_ writing about it for the uneducated masses to read.'

'Knowing you when you're bored, you might do anything,' John muttered darkly. 'So if it isn't you, then it's definitely someone we know… and they've described even the _sounds_ you make, Sherlock, exactly as you make them!'

'I _know_ who wrote this, John.'

'You do?'

'Yes, I just bumped into them this morning.' Sherlock went back to the counter-top, clearly dropping the matter from his mind and eager to continue his experiment.

'Bumped into them… who did you bump into this morning? Who _could_ you have bumped into this – '

Then it hit him. Oh _God,_ this was disturbing. She was writing fan fiction about them? She was a… a _fangirl_?

It was clear they needed to have a little chat.

'Mrs Hudson!' he bellowed.

x—x


	6. Loneliness

**LONELINESS**

It clawed at him, twisting in his insides, making him feel helpless. It was one of the times something rendered him so incapable of doing even the simplest things.

He'd feared this ever since John had become a significant part of his life. He could stand being alone - after all, he'd survived before John - but loneliness was something he couldn't. And life without John was a worthless life.

They'd had a row this morning. Something about Sherlock not compromising enough, always wanting to have his way. Sherlock had then stormed off to St. Bart's, to examine the pancreas of a victim in the morgue, and by the time he'd reached home (around 12 pm), his anger now completely dissolved, John was gone. And there was no note, nothing to indicate where he'd flown off to. Sherlock had forgotten his phone in the morgue and was averse to the idea of going back and retrieving it.

His first, immediate reaction was panic. Where could he have gone? Was he alright? Had someone (Mycroft? Some psychopathic killer?) kidnapped him again?

The next stage was realisation. Realisation that John had left him, abandoned him. It'd been six hours, and he still hadn't come back.

And then it was self-assessment. Whatever he'd done wrong this morning was obviously the cause of John's departure. If he could fix that, then maybe John could be persuaded to return.

So, by the time John trudged up the stairs and stood in the doorway with five heavy shopping bags, exhausted to the core, Sherlock was just a dejected lump on the couch, watching Doctor Who reruns on the telly.

'Sherlock, d'you think you could help me with this?' he asked through gritted teeth, and Sherlock leapt up at the sound of the familiar voice immediately. He went up to John and hugged him tightly, holding as much of John as he could close to him.

John was here. He hadn't left. Relief flooded through him in torrents.

'I thought you'd left,' he whispered, showing vulnerability for once. 'I thought you'd abandoned me. I'm so sorry.'

'Sorry for what?'

'This morning.'

That's alright. When I reached the hospital, I'd forgotten about why I was angry with you in the first place, anyway.' John tried to make light of the situation. 'How come you didn't you answer my texts? I even called you a few times, you didn't pick up.'

'I accidentally left my phone at Bart's and didn't want to go back and get it,' Sherlock muttered sheepishly.

'I was so worried about you!'

'And I was worried about you.' He kissed John on the lips, which were cold from the rain outside - a proper snog that weakened John's knees (and was fast rendering him incoherent), which were threatening to collapse any minute now.

'Let me let go of my bags, at least.' John panted.

'Oh, yes. Of course.'

He let John move ('But you won't help me with the shopping,' John grumbled), and once he straightened up, he looked his boyfriend straight in the eye.

'Don't do that again, John, please,' he said seriously. 'Don't leave me.'

'I would never.'

And that night, John proved to him without a doubt that he was definitely staying a long time.

x—x


	7. Nightmares

**NIGHTMARES**

Another scream. Another kick.

The nightmare was taking hold of his lover, he knew. And this was just his instinctive reaction to it.

Sherlock reacted by securing his arms tighter around John's waist, murmuring calm assurances. He stroked his hair, whispering, 'It's okay' in his ear, trying to convey to John's subconscious what his conscious understood.

When that didn't work, he gently untangled himself from John's arms and padded downstairs softly to get to his violin.

He played the most mellow tune he knew to calm his lover down, to make the nightmare go away. Softly, so that he didn't wake Mrs. Hudson or John. He knew what haunted John, even after these years. He knew it had hurt deeply, cut right to his heart. He even knew he'd contemplated suicide. Mycroft had kept him posted on his goings-on. But not a word of this had been breathed to John, obviously.

He heard a noise from upstairs, and realised that John was heading downstairs.

John looked at him from the doorway, taking in the beauty of Sherlock Holmes. He was... ethereal. Otherwordly.

Silently, he went to his armchair and sat down in it, listening passively to the music. It slowed his racing pulse, soothing him, lulling him back to sleep.

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock noticed a definite change in John's breathing pattern, from the frantic and shallow of a bad dream to the slow and deep of calmness, of peace of mind. He smiled to himself. There was no need for gratitude from John - there was enough that he did for Sherlock, this was simply his repayment.

Love did that to you sometimes, Sherlock wondered, turned you into a sentimental sop. He eased the worry lines away from John's forehead and kissed him there sweetly.

But then, he thought, it was all worth it.

x—x


	8. Suits

**SUITS**

Impeccable. The word was perfect to describe Sherlock Holmes' attire. And the man himself. The tight-fitting shirts that left little to the imagination, the black suits, even the flappy silk robes.

Even in boredom, the man was a sex god. In pyjama bottoms and a cotton t-shirt, that was especially true. At least to John, who found the purple shirts equally appealing. He could recall at least a dozen instances when he'd jumped Sherlock when he'd worn a purple shirt, and Sherlock had deigned to wear them more often afterwards.

In public, people who recognised them and often stopped them – whether man or woman – would stare unabashedly and hungrily at Sherlock, especially if he wore his 'purple shirt of sex', as it was called on John's blog.

His clothes were undoubtedly _very_ expensive, and John often wondered where they came from. They seemed very Savile Row-ey. That a man who accorded very little importance to his physical well-being (not eating, not sleeping, etc.) would pay close attention to his clothing was a slight bit odd.

Well, the answer to 'Where do all his clothes come from?' came on a visit to the Holmes family mansion (well, he said 'mansion') in Kensington Gardens, sans Mycroft, where Mummy casually mentioned that Sherlock's tailor had prepared his latest suits for him, all he had to do was pick them up from his store on Oxford Circus. And oh, the tailor had been paid in full beforehand, of course.

To which Sherlock coloured and stiffly muttered 'thanks', before stating that Lestrade had texted him about an urgent case and hurriedly (and ungracefully) leaving.

'He didn't really text you, did he?' John asked as they sat in the cab on the ride home.

'Of course not, I just needed to get out of the house.'

'Ah, right. Well, that answered my question.'

'Which one?'

'"Where do all your clothes come from?" Your mother, apparently.'

'She has _terrible_ taste in clothing, at least when it comes to me, so I tell her what I want and she gets it made.'

John hummed in response. 'I can recall _all_ of the things we've done with your coat, though.' he grinned wickedly.

Sherlock smiled. 'Ah, yes, my trusty Belstaff coat.'

'And your purple shirts.'

'You _do_ have an unhealthy fetish for those.'

'As does half of London.'

'You _jumped_ me on a crime scene once when I'd worn one, right in front of Anderson and Donovan. Their faces were _priceless_.'

'It took me all my willpower to avoid doing that in the cab on the way there and scandalising the cabbie.'

'Well, that does sound like fun, we should try it sometime.'

They laughed uproariously.

x—x


	9. Bickering

**BICKERING**

Sherlock was _grumpy_. John had thrown out his entire collection of gall bladder stones soaked in the vinegar bottle, _again_, and their 'little' domestic, as Mrs Hudson so kindly put it, lasted all the way up to the crime scene. Now they were simply either looking daggers at each other, or were not looking at each other at all. And since there was no other place to look, their shoes were their ever-patient audience.

The tension between them, when they arrived at the scene of crime, was palpable, and Greg Lestrade, being the clever man that he was, didn't fail to notice it. He wisely didn't say anything to the warring duo, though. It never did anyone good to get involved in their rows. He'd learned the hard way – he'd tried once and had got snapped at _extremely _rudely by both parties. He'd never attempted to do so again.

Anderson and Donovan, however, had other plans.

'So, what's the Freak done now, huh?' Anderson taunted.

'I did tell you to stay away from him,' Donovan said with bite in her tone.

Sherlock looked up with disgust etched on his handsome features. John's eyes turned stormy, his hands clenched at his sides. Sure, he may be angry at Sherlock, but that didn't give Anderson any right to call his boyfriend that… that word. _Deep breaths, Watson. Try not to punch them._

Sherlock's lips parted, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. _Uh-oh. And here it comes._

'Anderson, just because your ex-wife's taking away half your savings in alimony and is applying for single custody of both your children and is planning on taking them on a holiday to Majorca with that money does _not_ mean that you take your frustration out on everyone. Least of all John and me. What we do is none of your business, unlike you and Donovan, who seem intent on regaling everyone in the Yard with public displays of affection. And Donovan? I'd rather you take your glee at Anderson finally being a free man somewhere else – it disgusts me.'

With that, he swished condescendingly out of the room to take a look at the body in the adjoining foyer, John following him. Lestrade turned on the other two.

'Yeah, really mature, guys. Well done!' Sarcasm coloured his remarks.

A dull red infused their cheeks at the reprimand. He too stormed out, only to find that Sherlock and John had resumed their bickering. He sighed and rolled his eyes at them, listening from the doorway. _Mycroft and I never argue like this._

'… well, you could've just got another bottle of vinegar from Tesco's if you wanted to stuff bloody _gall bladder stones_ in it, Sherlock! Or you could've informed me before I lost my appetite for a very appealing dinner! You know, just because _you_ don't eat very often doesn't mean we all don't.' John was _fuming._

'It was _on_ the Science shelf. You told me to put experimental things there, and that's what I did! Not my fault you 'forgot to look'.' Sherlock protested, scoffing at the last part.

'Ladies, please, not here. Don't forget this is a crime scene, and someone's been murdered at 10 p.m., completely ruining my evening.' Lestrade passed by them, beckoning them tiredly to follow.

'My _experiment's_ been murdered! You don't know how important it was to me. I could've – '

'Sherlock.' John's voice was sharp, in a tone that clearly said, _shut up now._

His boyfriend muttered a few dark words that normally wouldn't have left his mouth, but he kept quiet after that.

…

It was nearly 3 a.m. when they were done with the case. It'd turned out that the killer was hiding in the chimney waiting to slip out when he got the chance but Sherlock, of course, never gave him one. _People will hide in the weirdest places to avoid detection._

On their way back, John broached the topic and said, 'If that experiment was _that _crucial to you, and if it's any compensation, I'll ask Molly for more stones tomorrow, and I'll get you a separate bottle of vinegar, okay?'

Sherlock's eyes lit up like a child's at Christmas. 'That would be lovely, thank you.'

'But – '

'Oh, here it comes.'

'You'll have to take me to dinner at Angelo's on Saturday. Otherwise, we don't have a deal.'

'Fine,' Sherlock groaned.

x—x


	10. Look

**LOOK**

Piercing blue eyes met earthy brown ones. A flicker, and then gone again.

Yet another instance where they crossed paths. This time, the gaze stayed longer.

It was addictive, this game they played. A stolen glance, a wistful snatch of the other's features. It had started, as these things do, with introspection. And then the _looks_ began.

At first, flickers, small glances at each other that ended as soon as the object became aware of them.

Then they lingered. Tracing the curve of the full lips, chasing the length of the wrist bone. These, too, were sneaked from time.

And then the stares – hungry, unabashed. It got so out of hand that they couldn't keep their eyes off each other, couldn't get enough. Often, they would just sit there and stare at each other, to hell with time, drinking in the other's presence. Seeing longing, admiration, affection across the broad spectrum of that peculiar yet beautiful shade of his eyes. A slight, furtive dart down towards the mouth and, oh, back again.

The deducer was being deduced. _Does he feel the same as I do? Will it work out if he does?_

The detective knew that the time to come together was imminent, but he chose not to do anything about it, ignoring the signs that his very much existent heart was sending him.

Fear was what made them cling onto this intimate yet fragile connection they'd forged – fear of what would happen if either made the first move.

Until it became too much to bear.

It was unclear who ended this paralysis – they gravitated towards each other, like moths to a flame. Seeking, searching desperately for their light. For they themselves were the moths, and they were each other's flames.

A mash of lips and teeth, a rustle of cloth on cloth, the creak of the sofa's spring. A sigh of contentment.

A smouldering look directed to his lovely, _lovely_ turquoise eyes (at the moment), full of love and longing. And a breathy word of joy escaping, melting into the night.

'Hello.'

x—x

**A/N:** I'm rather proud of this.


	11. Mary

**MARY**

The first year after Sherlock's return was… difficult. They didn't talk at all for most of the first month. But then, one day –

'Tell me about her.' Sherlock was looking out of the window, hands on his lips, stuck in their customary prayer position. 'Your wife, Mary.' His tone seemed cold, but to John, Sherlock was almost pleading. He didn't ask how Sherlock knew – he was just too used to it by now to even act surprised. When he didn't respond immediately, a single word rang through the silence.

'Please.'

John steeled himself. He'd expected Sherlock to ask much before now.

His voice, a little hoarse from almost no use, crackled out. He picked a flat, emotionless tone for this particular tale.

'Mary Morstan. It was… a few months after you fell. After everything that had happened with Moriarty, she seemed like the solution. We… _clicked_ somehow. She'd lost her first husband to cancer, and I'd lost my… flatmate. We married eight months after you… you know.' It was still so hard to talk about. 'And three months into that, we found out that she, too, had cancer. Breast, stage IV, we'd caught it far too late. No amount of chemotherapy or radiation helped. The doctors said she only had a few more months left.'

He couldn't keep his voice from quavering terribly. He took a deep steadying breath and stared straight ahead at the wall.

'But she stayed resilient. She was tough. And we spent her last months just… enjoying ourselves as much as we could. She died a few months before you returned. We buried her next to your grave, you might have seen it.' Another deep breath. 'She calmed me after your death. She knew what it felt like, and I… it was the best time for me since your fall. I loved her a lot.' His voice cracked.

_But not as much as I have loved you, Sherlock,_ he failed to add.

Sherlock's face was an unreadable mask. Silence for the longest while. Then, finally –

'Thank you.' After that, his actions seemed hesitant, unsure. Not Sherlockian in any way.

He stood from his spot, went over to John and, unexpectedly, wrapped the shorter man in his arms. They stayed like this just long enough for John to regain his bearings. It felt… good, _really good,_ Sherlock decided. _I should do this more often._

Then he untangled himself and went up to his room for the night without another word.

A burden shared is a burden halved, the old adage went, and John's shoulders certainly felt lighter than they had in months.

x—x


	12. Texting and Grammar

**Texting and Grammar**

_Stp txting me, im at wrk. – J _

_*Stop texting me, I'm at work. – SH_

_Wht? – J _

_*What. Your grammar, it's atrocious. I had to correct it. – SH_

_Oh, God. Were you always a Grammar Nazi? ;) – J _

_While I am not familiar with the term and its usage, I assume it means that, yes, I have always been conscious of grammatical errors. And I have always felt the urge to correct them, yes. – SH_

_Ever since you were a kid? :P – J _

_Kindly stop using emoticons, John, it's dull and pedestrian. That you aren't either of those, we both know. – SH_

_But yes, I have always been a 'Grammar Nazi', as you put it, ever since I was little. – SH_

_Tell me something about it. – J _

_You're at work, I don't want to distract you. You might kill someone. As I recall you telling me, you had 'bad days'. – SH_

_I'm a GP, Sherlock, I can't, even accidentally, 'kill' someone. – J _

_You might 'forget' to prescribe them a life-saving bottle of paracetamol. – SH_

_Bright ray of sunshine, aren't you? – J _

_Come home, John. – SH_

_Bring formaldehyde on your way back home. – SH_

_I'm fresh out of formaldehyde. – SH_

_John? – SH_

_John. – SH_

_Are you even listening? – SH_

_What was that about not distracting me at work? – J _

_Sorry. – SH_

_I'm bored, John. – SH_

_You need to entertain me. – SH _

_I want to shag you. – SH_

_I want to shag you senseless until you can't remember your own name, and I don't care if Mrs. Hudson hears. – SH _

_Jesus, Sherlock! I'm at __work__! While that thought is extremely appealing, I'm getting a few odd looks right now, and there's a five-year-old sitting in front of me! – J _

_Well, you shouldn't make your reactions so painfully obvious, then. – SH _

_Still bored. – SH_

_The day's so boring without you. – SH _

_How sweet. – J _

_I'm merely stating fact. Where have you hidden your Sig? – SH _

_TELL ME WHERE IT IS. – SH _

_You may find the flat blown up when you reach, so be sure to enter with caution. Unless you tell me where your Sig is. – SH_

_Please, John. – SH_

_Fine, don't tell me. - SH_

_So, your six-month jam supply is over. – SH_

_I ate your jam. – SH_

_And now I'm wearing your jumper. – SH_

_The oatmeal one. – SH_

_I ate your jam, am wearing your favourite jumper and am watching that wretched movie you so seem to enjoy, Valentine's Day. – SH_

_Your jumper smells like you. – SH_

_Valentine's Day is __dull__. – SH _

_Mrs. Hudson's made gingerbread cookies, they are heavenly. – SH_

_You should really come home right now and try some, John, they taste best when warm and fresh from the oven. – SH _

_I finished __all_ _your jam, John. – SH_

_All_ _of it. – SH_

_Really? __All__ of my jam? :P – J _

_I knew that'd get your attention. – SH_

_But I did finish an entire jar. – SH_

_And I really am wearing your oatmeal jumper. I can see why you like it, it smells delicious. – SH_

_It smells of __me__. – J _

_Of course, that's why it smells so good. Don't state the obvious, John. – SH_

_Right, done for the day, I'm coming home. – J _

_Finally__! I am majestically bored. – SH_

_Any of those heavenly cookies left? – J _

_I lied about the cookies. But if you like, you can ask Mrs. Hudson to make some for us. – SH_

_Git. :D – J _

_Hurry home. – SH_

…

John reached 221b, Baker Street in high spirits with a huge, soppy grin plastered on his face. And, of course, as soon as he entered the living room, Sherlock pounced on top of him, kissing him within an inch if his life and having his wicked way with him right then and there on the floor.

As they lay haphazardly in a tangle of limbs on the Persian rug, sated and glowing, John tightened his arm around Sherlock's waist as the latter nuzzled his neck.

'So, how _did_ you exercise your right as a – ahh, Sherlock, that's _good_ – as a Grammar Nazi as a kid?'

Sherlock stopped his nuzzling and looked up at him with his deep, currently-grey eyes. _Damn that man and his mesmerising eyes._

'You really want to know.' Not a question.

'Yes.'

Sherlock sighed deeply.

'When I was eleven, I was bullied. At Eton. And once, one of the bullies sent me a note that said – _Isn't you just waitin' to be clobbered, Holmes?_ – in the way young boys write it. And I sent it back to him, all grammar and spelling corrected. That stumped him for a while. But then, of course, he came back. They always came back.'

The memory seemed to make him withdraw a bit more into himself. Sensing this, John squeezed his hand. 'Well, look at you now. World's one and only Consulting Detective, eh?' He smiled softly.

After a heartbeat, Sherlock smiled back, a dazzling, breath-taking smile.

'Because now I have you.'

x—x


	13. Puzzle

**PUZZLE**

His world was filled with puzzles. Mind tricks, games, challenges. He enjoyed them while they lasted, until they dragged on or until his quick intellect solved them. For the longest time, he was content in knowing that he could solve most any puzzle that came his way.

Until John.

He was a never-ending puzzle – a challenge with no tangible solution. It kept him going, filling him with a previously-unheard of drive. He still hadn't solved the enigma that was Doctor John Watson.

He relished the opportunities when he peeled back layers after layers of the John Onion, but they never seemed to reach a central core. One moment, he'd think he had the doctor figured out; the latter had the capacity to surprise him at every turn. He had hardly seen the Army side of him (except while shooting killers or incapacitating a particularly irritating fellow with his fierce blows), but this had come to a forefront when he'd been invited to an Army function and John had dragged him along to meet his squadron mates.

He'd seemed extremely upright there, formal, proud. And Sherlock had understood immediately _why_. These were men who'd fought bravely in harsh terrains for days on end, and they deserved the much honour that they got.

And then there was John the Charmer. He could charm his way into making a suspect reveal a vital clue as well as Sherlock could, if not better. Sherlock often felt jealous of the recipient. John always reassured him that he had no reason to be.

He was also a demanding lover. He demanded that from Sherlock which he had never revealed to anyone else – his deepest, darkest secrets, complete and unflinching control over him and absolute access to his mind. It was dangerously thrilling, to give yourself so completely to someone else, like he had. It was pleasurable, and for once, he understood the joy that one felt in _giving._

All these little pieces taken from each day added to the greater jigsaw that was John, and there was never a moment when he did not learn something new and refreshing about the man.

John Watson was Sherlock's never-ending mystery case, and it wasn't going to be solved anytime soon.

Ah, bliss.

x—x


	14. Chocolate

**CHOCOLATE**

'Jawn.'

'_Jawn.'_

'_JAWN!'_

'_What?_ Unh, what _now_, Sherlock?'

Grumpy, as usual. _This was __not__ a good idea._

'I want chocolate, Jawn.'

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, bouncing up and down like a caffeine-deprived maniac (granted, he probably was), clearly having been awake for a while.

'Check in the fridge, then. You didn't…' John stifled a yawn, '… didn't have to wake me up for it.'

'There isn't any in the house, that's why I woke you up.'

'And?'

'Could you go get some for me?' He pulled his best puppy-dog look.

John was not to be swayed. 'No,' he said stoutly, staring up at the blank ceiling.

'Please?'

'No.'

'I'll make it up to you. However you want.'

'No.'

'I'll make you tea every single day for two weeks.'

'_No.'_

'A month?'

'No!'

'I promise I will never ever snatch the entire duvet at night, _please_, John?'

'It's 2 a.m., Sherlock, I was having a perfectly good sleep and no shop is open at this ungodly hour!'

'No, but the Tesco's on Weatherby Street nearby is open twenty-four hours, I saw the sign.'

'Absolutely _not_, Sherlock! You interrupted my sleep, and you _know_ not to disturb me when I'm sleeping!'

'But I want _chocolate_!' Sherlock whined.

'Go get some on your own, then.' He prepared to go right back to sleep, to re-enter his lovely dream. On the other hand…

A pause.

'You were dreaming about me, weren't you?' Sherlock narrowed his eyes, gaining in on his prey, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Uh-oh.

'Wh-what makes you think that?' Okay, that came out in a higher pitch than intended.

'Is that why you're hard as an iron rod?'

'Um, no…'

'Please, John, you know better than to lie to me.'

'Come to think of it, let's go. C'mon, grab your coat, we're going to that Tesco's on Weatherby Street.' Anything to evade this. He was tired, he had to call in work tomorrow, and if they started now, they wouldn't be able to stop until midday, at least. Sherlock Holmes was a man blessed with an unnaturally high libido. While he was grateful for that mostly, it was an irritant sometimes.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes and then screwed them shut tight as he tried to think of various things to get rid of his raging hard-on.

Sherlock smirked smugly. 'I _could_ just take care of that for you, you know.'

'No. No, definitely not. We both know where _that_ leads. I _have_ to get to work tomorrow morning, and even though Sarah's being awfully polite about it, I _know_ she's implying that if I miss one more day of work, they're firing me.'

_Mrs Hudson with her hideous kittens (ugh, no, that's __cute__, not helping here), Anderson in drag, Lestrade and Mycroft snogging…_ ah, that seemed to have done the trick.

He swung his legs off the bed, got up and began to dress. Sherlock, having already anticipated this outcome, knowing full well he'd give in, had already changed into his pyjama bottoms and grey full-sleeved t-shirt.

'Let's get this over with, then.' John grimaced.

They padded down the stairs as softly as they could and stepped out into the warm night. Sherlock sighed satisfactorily and put his arm around the shorter man's shoulder, tugging him closer.

…

At Tesco's, it turned out that, despite the 'We're open 24-hours!' sign, most of the cashiers had called it a night (well, technically morning), so they had to operate the – oh, _joy_ – dreaded chip-and-pin machine on their own. But this time, it didn't take as long as it usually took John ('My card works everywhere, John,' Sherlock reminded him).

The shopping bag was piled to the top with Aeros (the mint ones, Sherlock's favourites), Mars bars and Twix. On their way home, it suddenly occurred to John that the whole point to this rather fruitless exercise was to tease John, and that was _exactly_ what Sherlock was succeeding in. He watched sulkily, as this realisation hit him, as Sherlock unwrapped a Mars bar from its crackling wrapping and inserted the gooey chocolate into his mouth, moaning with satisfaction as its rich, chocolaty taste melted throughout his body.

This went on until they reached 221B, Baker Street, and John couldn't stand it anymore. He snatched the second offending chocolate bar from Sherlock's hand, ignoring the latter's indignant shout of, 'Hey! I wasn't done yet!' and kissed him bruisingly, forcefully shoving him up against the wall of their living room.

'You – complete – git,' he snarled between mind-numbing kisses.

Sherlock only grinned against his mouth.

'You're – easy,' he breathed.

John growled in a very un-gentleman-like manner and banged the door to their bedroom open. He threw Sherlock on the bed and began to ferociously attack his clothing.

…

Well, John certainly didn't get to work the following morning (and no, they didn't fire him, as they understood the predicament he fed them), and he certainly didn't mind.

x—x

**A/N:** Mint Aeros are my absolute _favourites_, as are Mars bars. *drools a lot*

Also, erm - Weatherby Street is an entirely fictional street I made up, I looked up Google Maps, and well, yeah. *smiles sheepishly*


	15. Flowers

**One Final Disclaimer:** I still own nothing. *discontented sigh*

**Author's Note:** A big, genuine, _heartfelt_ thank you to all those people who have read this story and stuck with me 'til the very end (i.e., this chapter), and an even bigger thank you to all those who reviewed/favourited/followed this crazy collection of ficlets. I really am overwhelmed.

**Those that didn't review:** I'd be glad to hear your opinions, and I'd give you a big shout-out if you did.

Cheers!

…

**FLOWERS**

Thousands and _thousands_ of petals, _everywhere_, covering every surface. It was like walking into a floral storm. The air smelled sickly sweet – like roses and lilies and carnations and every other flower he could think of. It made him gag a little, but like the brave soldier that he was, he ploughed on.

The entrance to the kitchen was blocked by a large patch of leafy stems, and a dark, curly-haired detective poked his head out from behind the barricade and looked at John curiously.

'You're home early,' he mumbled distractedly, glancing back down at his leaves. 'I wasn't done yet.'

'Were you so bored that you raided a florist's shop?' John worked hard to keep his growing grin from splitting his face.

'Mm.' Sherlock rearranged a few stems randomly, but appeared unsatisfied. He frowned. This arrangement was clearly not working, and he desperately needed it to.

'Now will you come here so that I can kiss you properly? I can't do anything with this great big bush between us.'

'Of course.'

There were bits of desiccated dahlia in his ebony hair and as John pulled him down for a sweet kiss, he batted his hair so that they fell out.

Now John allowed himself a grin. 'So, erm, what _were_ you experimenting with all these flowers? How to attract as many pollen-hungry bees as quickly as possible?'

'Wouldn't you like to know,' Sherlock muttered mysteriously, turning away from John to go back to the kitchen. John held his arm and pulled him closer. He kissed Sherlock on the nose and said, 'No, tell me.'

'Never mind.'

'_Sherlock._'

'I was trying to make the flat look… nice, I thought I'd be adept at floral arrangements, but at the sight of them, thinking about how many _bees_ could come here…' He shuddered. He was afraid of bees, _very_ afraid, had been ever since a swarm of them had attacked him on the family estate when he'd been a curious five year-old.

'… you panicked,' John finished. 'Yeah, I surmised as much. But _why?_ You've never tried to make the flat look even _remotely_ close to decent before, why _today_, of all days?'

Sherlock's mouth was a thin line. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'If you're going to be that way… I'm ordering Indian, and you _will_ eat, Sherlock,' he looked at Sherlock with an exasperated glance, 'because I've seen you steal pieces of my naan and eat it with the chicken tikka masala, instead of actually admitting you're feeling peckish like a normal human being.'

Grumbling from the detective. 'Yes, well, I like the biryani better.'

'Fine, I'll order biryani for you, then.'

While John was on the phone with the Indian place down the street, Sherlock sneaked across to their bedroom – gosh, _their_ bedroom – to check if everything was still as he'd arranged it. It was. _Perfect._

…

Dinner done with, Sherlock watched with barely-contained glee as John stacked the forks and spoons in the already-overflowing sink and threw the takeaway trays in the garbage bin. He waited for his partner to go to their room – _oh, this is going to be priceless!_

He followed John along the short passageway to the room. There was a sudden intake of breath from the man in front of him.

'Sherlock,' John gasped. 'What… what _is_ this?'

The bed was covered with rose petals, and scented candles made their presence known by flickering sensuously, casting shadows on the walls opposite.

His heart caught in his throat as he gently turned John around by the shoulders to face him.

'This,' he smiled softly, 'is our room. Decorated.'

'But…'

'Shh.' Sherlock placed a finger to his lips and beckoned John to follow him to the edge of the bed.

John followed, bemused. Sherlock then grinned as John sat down next to him on the (surprisingly) well-carpeted bed. He took both of John's hands in his, but then licked his lips as he was reminded of the task ahead of him.

'This is really not my area…' he began. John chuckled confusedly.

'Now that we've stated the obvious.'

'I have thought about this long and hard, and I have come to the conclusion that this will work.'

'Right, because you _never_ do that.'

'Will you stop interrupting?' Sherlock was clearly agitated now. 'This is hard enough for me as it is.'

'Sorry. Go on.'

'Fuck this, I'll just say it – John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?'

John just sat there, stunned. His hands fell limp.

Sherlock was worried. _Very _worried. 'John. John?' This was _not _how he'd imagined it would be.

Ten seconds went by, then twenty, then thirty, then –

'Oh God, _yes_.'

John hugged Sherlock tightly, holding every molecule of this wonderful, infuriating, eccentric, _wonderful_ man flush against his body, never wanting this moment to end.

Sherlock sighed in relief and pleasure as he felt John press swift, desiring kisses to his neck and chest (he'd ripped the buttons of his finest purple shirt off a moment back).

'I love you,' he breathed into John's hair. He heard John humming in reply.

'I love you, too.'

And they fell onto the dark expanse of the bed, moaning with desire, which, of course, was when Sherlock opened his mouth and said –

'I really think – oh, JOHN! – we should go ring shopping – aaaaaah – tomorrow, and – '

'Shut up.'

Sherlock grinned, promptly did just that, and let his fiancé ravish him thoroughly.

Ah, these boys.

x—x

**Author's**** Note:**I'm not quite sure whether Indian restaurants in London serve biryani (a sort of awesome vegetable-rice-dish: I don't quite know how to describe its wonderfulness), even though I've lived there long enough (erm, two years) to find out, I don't remember at all. Well, whatever.

Don't forget to review, if you haven't already!

_*Here I take my bow*_


	16. Epilogue: Welcome Home

**Author's Note:** I _reeeeeally_ couldn't resist. Writing Parentlock is just so satisfying! But, well, the Epilogue. And now it really ends.

**Warning:** You may die of overexposure to extreme fluff. Beware.

**Epilogue: Welcome Home**

It's been a little over a year since they got married in that small church off Westminster Abbey (Mycroft, but naturally, had offered them the Abbey, but they had declined), and this is the Big Day they've been waiting for ever since they got the news. It's all a little new to Sherlock, but for once, he doesn't care. He has John, after all.

After nine months of waiting, their little bundle of joy is coming home to 221B, Baker Street.

A baby boy.

Sherlock's eyes light up every time he thinks about him, and his heart beats a little quicker.

John notices and smiles reassuringly at his husband. _This will be fine_. He squeezes his hand gently.

John's nervous, too – he's a walking bunch of nerves, has been ever since they got to know a few weeks ago that the baby was coming. This is different, _so_ much different than he'd thought.

The cab arrives at Saint Mary's Hospital (all courtesy Mycroft), and they hop out onto the pavement, jittery with anticipation.

…

The surrogate mother has been paid in full and thanked with much gratitude.

They go straight to the Maternity Ward (which is extremely quiet), gaze at the new-borns resting peacefully in their incubators – and there he is.

A dark mop of hair, fresh pink skin, high cheekbones – all Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at John with wonder and awe in his eyes. They're shining with tears. Funny, Sherlock almost _never_ cries. John feels his own eyes moisten, and he shuffles closer to his husband, gazing at the little baby with adoration, arms locked around Sherlock's waist.

It's quiet for a while.

'Hamish,' Sherlock suddenly says, breaking the silence. 'Hamish Alexander Watson-Holmes.'

'I like it,' John says, wiping the tears from his eyes. 'It's a good name for him.'

'It… fits.'

'It does.'

'Remember that time…?'

'I remember.' John smiles at the memory. _"Hamish. John Hamish Watson, just in case you're looking for baby names."_ Little had he known that _he'd_ be the one about to raise a family with Sherlock Holmes.

'Hamish Alexander, welcome to Earth. Welcome home,' Sherlock says softly.

And at that moment, little Hamish opens his eyes. Warm, inquisitive brown eyes, just like John's. He looks at the two huge figures looming over him curiously, and then gives them a small, adorable, toothless smile.

'Aww,' John coos instinctively, burrowing a little more into Sherlock's side.

Sherlock grins a wide grin full of pleasure and says proudly, 'He's our son.'

'The son of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.'

'With dark, curly hair and high cheekbones and warm brown eyes and an even warmer heart.'

'And a razor-sharp mind to go along with it.'

'He _is_ my son, after all.'

'Yes, he is.'

It's their own little cocoon of everlasting serenity. _Peace of mind at last_.

Sherlock had never really known what pure joy was until now.

He wouldn't trade this happiness for anything in the world.

x—x

**FIN.**


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